


As The World Falls Down

by WaywardDesertKnight



Category: Labyrinth (1986), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (Gandalf isnt really Gandalf please don't be mad), Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempted Murder, Fae & Fairies, Fae Morality, Implied Murder, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's not our morality, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Past Child Abuse, Romance, Sexual Tension, Trans Male Character, Wingfic, child endangerment, the main character is legal by Spanish national laws we swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:52:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardDesertKnight/pseuds/WaywardDesertKnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wishes are powerful things, and sometimes a wish may have unintended consequences. To call upon the Goblin King is not something to take lightly. You may just get what you wished for, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sound of Madness

“Niph, it’s way past your bedtime!” Mírdan scowled at his sister sprawled on the couch. He strode across the living room and seized the TV remote. “What the hell?” He stared at the state of the living room. Junk food wrappers laid strewn across it, with a soda can tower on the coffee table. His sister glanced up from a dust of crumbs and stains. “It looks like a hurricane hit this place, and Grandpa’s coming home, tonight!”

“Tch, looks fine to me.” She grumbled as he stopped her movie. The browsing history pulled up, “I was watching that! Pisshead!” She barked.

“Niph, get this place cleaned up, brush your teeth and go to sleep!” He snapped. “Orchestra rehearsal ran late and I have a test tomorrow!” He ran a hand along one shaved side of his head. “Get this cleaned up before I go to bed!”

Niphredil glared up at him, “you ain’t th’ boss of me!”

“Grandpa left me in charge until he gets back so yeah I am!”

“Oh look at me! I get two needles full of testa-whatever and suddenly I’m the manliest man in this whole house! You still cry during Bambi!” She laughed.

He loomed over her, “you’ve got five seconds to get your ass in gear! Five!”

“Make me!” The girl remained defiantly on the couch.

“Four, three, two, Niph I’m serious, one!” He pointed to the mess, “go! We have to go to bed! We both have school tomorrow.”

“Old ass!” She cackled and seized the remote.

“Niphredil!” He roared and lunged for her.

She evaded her brother’s grip, biting him on the arm for good measure. The movie sprang back to life, the speakers blaring.

Mírdan lunged for her again and she rolled out of the way, knocking the tower onto the floor. He gave chase as they darted around the living room until his boot collided with something that snapped underfoot. Niphredil froze, when she spun about, she found her brother had crushed three of her action figures underfoot. “Fuckhead!” She screeched, “fucking bull in a china shop you are!”

“Niph I’m sorry!” He yelped as her head drove into his stomach, she threw the remote into his face, followed by the broken figures.

As he winced, the girl ran for the staircase. “Y’know just cuz Gramps left you in charge doesn’t mean you get to be a fucking bully!” She stormed up to her room and slammed her door.

The action figures clutched in her hands had been her favorites. Her brother had completely ruined the movie intermission of Robot Unicorn versus the Decepticon Daleks. She huffed and strode to her bed, throwing herself across it, when her head hit the book that she had checked out for her book report. It was a plain red cover, the dust jacket lost to the ages, the peeled gold leaf spelled out _The Labyrinth_. The book was so worn even the author’s name had been lost, and no amount of google search had helped her. The interior pages had been torn out, including the publishing information and dedication.

She smirked as she sniffled, wiping away her tears. “Be fuckin’ nice you know, get rid of the ponce. Mírdan I mean, not Tintastel,” her next oldest brother snores across the hall, already asleep from swim practice. “Have him spirited off so I can have some peace and quiet.” As she spoke, Niphredil could hear the vacuum cleaner downstairs. “Pushover pisshead. Let him go clean some goblin toilets, so obsessed with cleaning.”

The girl clicked on her lamp and read for a while. The sound of the vacuum faded, and she stood up to lock her door, shoving her desk chair in front of it for good measure. No creak at the stairs, “still cleaning? Serves you right you overbearing pisswipe!” She snapped at the wood before her eyes fell to the book. “Tch, worth a shot,” if it wasn’t true, then no one would ever know, and if it was well…

“Do I have to recite it verbatim? Fuck if I know… Um once upon a time there was a kick ass girl who was so awesome and cool. But her older brother was a complete shitbag who never let her do anything fun ever. There was something her stupid brother didn’t know, that the Goblin King, wait ew no, don’t want him in love with me,” she wrinkled her nose. “Um, got it, she had become bros with the Goblin King! And cause they were such bros, he had given her certain powers. So one night when she couldn’t take it anymore, she asked the goblins for help.”

Niphredil took a deep breath and met her reflection’s eyes, “Oh Goblin King! Goblin King! Wherever you may be, take this asshole brother away from me!”

A knock came at the door. “Niph? You awake?”

She glanced away from the mirror briefly before her glare returned to it. “I wish the goblins really would take away that fucking idiot…”

The knocking came to a stop, as the window slammed inward, the hinges breaking with the move. A bird sailed inside, all black save for the shoulders, which were bright red with a splash of yellow, and she hissed at it. The bird squawked in retaliation, “get out!”

Niphredil hefted her chair from the door and chased the intruder until they fluttered out the door in a huff. She set the chair down and frowned, that was weird. Too weird.

“Hey, Tano, you there?” The girl opened the door cautiously, her toes nudged something. On the ground rested the broken action figures, glued back together with tape wrapped around to keep them in place until the glue set. She picked them up and put them in the pocket of her denim vest before she ventured into the hallway.

Tintastel’s snoring broke the silence as her feet padded quietly down to Mírdan’s room. The door stood partway open, she peered inside. Animal skins and FC Barcelona paraphernalia lined the walls as she tried to find her brother. “Oi, Tano, the fuck are you?”

“Don’t you know?” A voice spoke from the darkness. She seized the nearest object, a snare drum and hefted it. The low voice chuckled, joined by a chorus of smaller, higher pitched ones. “You did wish him away to the keeping of the Goblin King after all.”

She hissed, “come out coward!”

“Really, so uncouth, I almost pity him,” the figure that emerged from the shadows stood tall and proud. His suit was tight fit with a ruffled cravat, a red jewel sat at the top, as bright as the flecks of starlight caught in the black jacket. The edge of a cummerbund flashed below the bottom button of his jacket. His long black hair framed his high cheekbones and revealed the coy smile on his lips.

Niphredil scowled as she clutched the drum tighter, “who are you?”

He rolled his eyes, “you ask me for aid and yet fail to recognize me? The Goblin King, though you may call me Morifinwë.” The monarch offered one of the many names he went by.

“Where is my assface of a brother?!” She barked.

The fae sighed and appeared by the window a moment later, a faint puddle of glitter appeared where he had been prior. “Temper, temper. Your brother is safe in my keeping, for now. If you want him back you will have to fetch him yourself.”

The girl dropped the drum as the Goblin King transported both of them to a desolate garden, overgrown and dead. Before them stood a massive labyrinth, sprawling across acres of land. In the center she could just make out the figure of a castle, spires crooked and cruel. “The fuck are we?”

“My realm, as I said if you want your brother back, you do have a chance.” He gestured out to the labyrinth, “my palace lies at the center. If you can reach it in thirteen hours, I will hear your case to retrieve your brother.” An hourglass appeared in his hand, “however I wouldn’t blame you if you wished to leave him. As I recall he was horrible to you.”

Niphredil considered, “fuck. You are a pretentious pretty boy and I hate you!”

Morifinwë grit his teeth and loomed over her, “I have done as you asked and offered you a chance to recant. I would not make threats so lightly.”

“Tch,” she kicked the dirt. On the one hand, her brother got what he deserved in her opinion. On the other, she’d probably get a lecture from their grandfather and brother. “Fine, I’ll beat your stupid fucking maze!”

“Labyrinth,” he corrected.

“Whatever pretty boy, where’s the door?” She studied the wall from their perch on the hill. When she received no reply, the girl found that the fae had abandoned her, leaving a pile of glitter and the hourglass, already trickling down. She stooped to inspect them but both glitter and hourglass disappeared when her fingers brushed them.

Niphredil stood, and tugged on her denim vest. “Fucking great, stupid big brother getting kidnapped, does sarcasm mean nothing here?” She grumbled and began her descent. “Robot unicorn, you’ll eat well tonight! Hi-ho!”

 


	2. Little Talks

Carnistir sighed as he teleported back into his throne room. The girl would fail. She was uncouth, uncivilized, and completely abhorrent, much like his immediate eldest brother. Unless she pulled quite the rabbit out of her metaphorical hat, her brother would be his newest citizen. He lounged on his throne and observed the boy.

He was much older than Carnistir’s usual guests. Generally, the ages of runner and captive were swapped, with the elder sibling or whatever relation they ended up being wishing away the younger, not the other way round. He hummed under his breath. The boy was attractive, if badly dressed. His red hair grew in unruly curls, though both sides were clean-shaven. The freckles were cute, as well as extremely numerous. He also appeared over the age of consent for humans, though Carnistir was an incredibly bad judge of that.

Human culture was so mutable, it was difficult to keep up with, as well as keep track of. It didn't help that now most traces of magic, of the old ways, were lost to the humans now. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne and closed his eyes in thought. There was no telling how long the boy would be out. Crossing the Veil took more out of humans the older they were, unless they possessed very strong inborn magic of their own. The human world itself sucked the magic from them, hungry and lacking ever since all magical beings had chosen to cross the Veil and remain there.

Time passed, and sooner than he expected, Carnistir was interrupted from his musing by his guest stirring. The boy sat up, rubbing at storm-grey eyes sleepily, not seeming to realize he wasn't home. Carnistir considered him, where he lay, propped up on his elbow in the shallow pit before his throne, resting comfortably on a pile of furs. He rose to his feet, and that drew those pretty grey eyes to him. He watched, feeling faintly amused as red flooded the young human’s face, overtaking the multitude of cute freckles, and those pretty eyes grew very wide.

“W-what? Where am I!” The human demanded, springing to his feet in an ill-advised move. Carnistir moved forward swiftly, catching the boy about the waist as his knees buckled and he wobbled badly.

“Careful there,” Carnistir purred, tucking the small human close to his body.

“Uh- thank you?” The words were very high-pitched and squeaky, and Carnistir grinned devilishly.

“Not a problem, little one,” he murmured, waltzing a few steps in a fit of whimsy. The human followed his lead with only minimal stumbling, which was pleasing. “You are in my kingdom, little one. Your sister wished you away into my care.” He explained.

“Goddammit, Niph…” the human mumbled, looking caught between exasperation and sadness. “I’m sorry about my sister’s behavior. She’s really a very sweet girl, I probably just pushed too hard.” Carnistir blinked, feeling momentarily wrong-footed. Did this sweet, responsible human boy really just apologize for how his sister had treated him? He’d seen the scene in the living room of their domicile, and she’d acted like a perfectly spoiled, horrible, rotten little brat.

“No, I saw you two fight – I was drawn by the potential magic there, and she was being perfectly, humanly horrible to you. Fret not, though. She will  _ learn _ ,” he smiled darkly at the promise. That was, after all, the Labyrinth’s choice of a lesson for that child – not to take her family for granted, to learn to love them even when they were chastising her. The boy blinked at him, for a moment seeming rather shocked, before he forcibly removed himself from Carnistir’s arms and drew himself up to his full, if rather unimpressive, height.

“If you hurt my sister I swear to  _ fuck _ ,” he growled, and Carnistir laid a hand over his mouth.

“I do not seek to harm your sister.” He rebuked the boy. “Any harm that comes to her will be her own doing, as part of our contract. You I will keep from any harm, as my guest.” The boy deflated at that, slumping back into his slightly slouched posture. Carnistir preferred the fierceness from before to this strange, artificial meekness.

“Um. I- thanks for your hospitality,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the floor. Carnistir smiled again, pleased by the gratitude, if not by the manner in which it was given.

“I would offer you food and drink,” he purred, and watched, satisfaction and faint disappointment warring, as the boy immediately shook his head in the negative. “Ah, yes. I thought you’d be too intelligent to accept.” He watched, quite content to watch the boy flail about for words, red flooding that adorable freckled face again.

“Um- I’m, uh, Mírdan, sir. Uh, Your Majesty.” He made a slight, stiff bow, and Carnistir smiled, absolutely charmed. The human had manners! That seemed rarer and rarer these days.

“You may call me Morifinwë, Mírdan.” He invited, a concession he did not normally give those wished away.

“Uh, thank you,” the boy made it sound like a question, looking thoroughly confused. He was looking at Carnistir again, so he counted it a win in his favor. “So, uh, what sort of kingdom of the Fair Folk is this?” He questioned, and Carnistir felt that slight dissonant jolt again. This boy was not like most others he came across, and he was beginning to think seriously about trapping him here if his sister won against the Labyrinth.

“This is the Goblin Kingdom,” he replied, carefully putting a broad hand to the small of the boy’s back and guiding him out onto the balcony. “Many are the lesser fae who make their domicile here, and my magic and that of the Labyrinth sustains them so that they do not fade.” The view, to his eyes, was impressive, the tangled, lively, bustling city at the feet of the castle, and beyond it, the Labyrinth in all of her intricate glory. He wondered what the boy saw, with the magic of his fear clouding his view.

“Uh-“ he hesitated briefly, squinting down at the streets before finding his words once more. “How does one become Goblin King? From what I recall of the Fair Folk, you don’t die so it can’t be hereditary, can it? Are you elected by a parliamentary body? Or were you appointed to the post?” Carnistir chuckled, quite delighted by the nature of the human’s questions, and guided him back inside. He gestured briefly, and a small, low stool mushroomed out of the ground. Mírdan startled, but took the seat as it was offered to him, and Carnistir sprawled comfortably over his throne. Mírdan blushed intensely, averting his eyes, and Carnistir checked himself, before realizing that the boy, from that angle, would have a clear view of his pelvic area. He smirked, letting his knee droop just a little more.

“So, you’d like to know more about the politics of the Fae Realms, would you?” He tapped his lips thoughtfully. “My brothers would tell me to shut up at this point,” he remarked conversationally. “None of them seem to truly appreciate the intricacies of politics.” Mírdan nodded sympathetically. “Well. My position is… an odd one, I’ll grant you. King of the Goblins is not, by any means, a  _ coveted _ position, for all it comes with a great increase in magical technique and ability. It also comes with responsibilities, you see, and one of those involves potential prolonged contact with the mortal realm.” He saw no point in mentioning the others; sustaining of the goblins, varied regular political duties, the constant presence of the Labyrinth in his mind, like an enormous, sleeping cat, only stirring when there was something interesting to play with, but also easily bored. His biggest, most taxing duty was keeping the Labyrinth, in all her enormous, magical, semi-sentient majesty, from getting  _ bored _ .

“Oh, that’s, hm. Well, how did you get appointed, then?” Mírdan asked, looking genuinely curious. Carnistir felt his mouth twist into a humorless smile.

“The previous Goblin King angered the Labyrinth, and she consumed him. The position stood open for a good hundred or so years, before my father angered She Whose Name We Dare Not Utter. She chose to mete out her punishment on my father’s seven sons, and mine was to take up the crown here.” He smiled faintly again. “I do not know if She knew I would flourish here, as I have.” The human frowned, looking thoughtful and a little annoyed

“Um, I hope she doesn’t eat you?” Mírdan looked a little puzzled, but mostly hopeful. “You seem quite nice.” He offered, and it took all of Carnistir’s power not to break out into laughter. Instead he straightened up in his throne, dropping both feet to the floor and leaning forward slightly.

“Oh, I can be  _ very _ nice, if I’ve reason to,” he purred, enjoying the way that this human was so easily embarrassed. Sure enough, the boy turned vivid red again. Only a faint squeak issued from the boy’s mouth, before he started coughing in a most concerning manner. Carnistir stood, alarmed. If this boy came to harm under his protection, there would be hell to pay. He swept a quick diagnostic spell over the human. There was a small amount of fluid buildup in his lungs, likely the result of the chest compressing device the boy was wearing. He conjured a loose silk shirt from his wardrobe, and offered it to the boy solicitously. “You should probably take that chest compressor off, you’re going to do yourself harm,” he said softly.

Mírdan’s eyebrows shot up, and he murmured a surprised word of thanks, before taking the shirt and studying it. He carefully folded it over his arm, and without thinking, turned his back to Carnistir and began to undo the paisley bowtie at his throat. His sweater vest and button down shirt he set aside on the floor before the silk shirt came to rest atop them. As he rolled the chest compressing device over his head, Carnistir tilted his head, licking his lips faintly. He had no idea why the human had been compressing his chest, but perhaps it was a mortal hang-up. From this angle he could see a faint, pleasing curve to the other’s chest.

It sadly disappeared beneath the silk drape of the shirt, but Carnistir swept another diagnostic spell over him as the boy made some deep, purposeful coughs and stretched his arms over his head. The fluid was receding, but Carnistir helped it along with a small spell. The boy wouldn’t have any more problems of that sort for at least a month. Mírdan turned back to face him, one hand self-consciously holding the open vee of the shirt closed.

“I don’t know how I’m going to get this back to you,” he said apologetically, and Carnistir waved an idle hand.

“Consider it a gift,” he purred, advancing on the slight redhead in a moderately predatory manner.

“With respect, sir, no gift here is freely given,” the redhead was embarrassed again, stumbling back a step.

“You are my guest, and I am duty-bound to see that no harm comes to you. The way that shirt was compressing your lungs, I fear, would be considered harm in accordance with my contract with your sister. Please, for my sake, accept this as a gift, freely given.” He said solemnly, standing before the redhead and taking up his free hand, kissing the back of it. He wove a small compulsion over the familiar black silk – whenever the boy looked at the shirt he would think of Carnistir, however briefly, and the silk would never loose the lingering scent of sandalwood and wildflowers that was his signature. The cloth accepted the spell gladly. The boy was looking somewhat worse the wear for Carnistir’s gallantry, though, so very red in the face that Carnistir thought he might faint. Mírdan’s mouth opened and closed, a few faint, stuttering noises issuing from him.

“So, uh, what’s an average day at court look like?” he finally blurted out, volume slightly too loud, and Carnistir let him escape back to his stool and collect himself. Carnistir smirked, rightfully smug.

“Are you certain that’s what you wish to know?” He asked slowly, prowling back over to his throne. He watched from the corner of his eye as the boy’s eyes seemed magnetically drawn to his posterior in supple black leather. He relaxed into his throne once more, letting his legs stretch out in front of him, spreading them in a way he knew highlighted certain attributes.

“Yes, I mean I haven’t seen any retainers or aides coming or going? I can’t imagine anyone running a kingdom by themselves.” The boy jabbered, eyes fixed on a particular corner of the ceiling, as though in ardent denial that he had been ogling Carnistir. As though summoned by the boy’s comment, his personal assistant appeared in the doorway, clearing his throat faintly. Carnistir straightened and crossed his legs elegantly, as Mírdan startled and practically fell off his stool.

“My lord? I’ve the reports from the border patrols. You said you wished to see them? My apologies, I hadn’t realized you were… entertaining.” The fae at the door – young, with a fall of beautiful dark curls, and eyes a patched blue and green, similar to Carnistir’s own, was hesitant and nervous, eyeing the human like he might lunge up and attack at any given moment. Mírdan seemed to have much the same expression. Carnistir chose to rise, and cross to take the papers from his assistant himself.

“I asked Captain Ecthelion to deliver these?” He phrased it as a question, so as not to alarm his rather delicately natured assistant.

“I’m sorry, Majesty, but he’s been detained down in the marketplace. There was a minor scuffle between two vendors, and there might have been a small brawl breaking out.” The young fae winced, and Carnistir rested a gentle hand on the lad’s head, deftly avoiding the long, velvety antlers.

“That’s fine, Pityaruvo, just send him up when he’s free so we can review these. You can go.” He instructed, and the nervous boy bobbed a proper bow and fled. Carnistir conjured the papers to his desk in his office, and returned to his seat. “Forgive my assistant, he’s rather faint of heart around strangers.”

“That’s understandable,” Mírdan sympathized, “was my sister involved in it?” Carnistir chuckled.

“Probably not, she hasn’t breached the city walls yet.” He replied, wondering if small human children were often involved in scuffles that could be rightfully called brawls. Mírdan frowned, looking puzzled.

“How long was I out for?” He asked, casting an unconscious glance back at the shallow, fur-filled pit. Carnistir looked at the sandglass by the throne.

“Only about an hour, and we’ve been talking another.” Carnistir said, supremely unconcerned. Mírdan was beginning to look worried.

“Uh, in that case, how long does she have to retrieve me?” He asked, biting his lip. Carnistir smirked.

“Thirteen hours, from the point the first grain of sand began to fall,” he said, gesturing grandly at the hourglass.


	3. The Door Opens

Niphredil scowled at the imposing brick wall before her, which stretched as far as she could see in either direction. The bricks were worn and cracked, and despite the impressive breadth of the structure, it was no taller than the side of the barn or cider house. She had been climbing things since she could crawl, and after checking her sneaker laces, took off at a run, lights flickering with every step. The girl launched herself at the wall and began to scramble up. Somehow the grooves worn by time filled in, and with every step, the bricks oozed something slick. She persevered another foot into the ground before her shoes lost their grip and she dangled.

“I’ve seen a lot of things, never saw anyone trying to go over.” A voice behind her caught her attention. “Last Runner tried to dig, and most just try to find the door.”

At that she dropped to the ground, crouched and alert. At the edge of a pool behind her sat a bird, watching and observing her. The bird’s head disappeared into the water briefly before coming up with a fish. Their feathers seemed patterned with dark browns on the wings and back with an off-white head, save the brown bandit mask and blue bill. They tipped their head back and swallowed down the fish.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?” She scowled.

“I’m Faelala, always been Faelala, always will be.” The bird giggled and it sounded like an old rhyme she had heard once.

“You’re a kookaburra!” Niphredil realized, “I learned about them when we were learning ‘bout Australia!”

“No, I’m Faelala, you’re a kookaburra.” The bird rejoined, puffed up.

The girl shrugged, flipped him off and studied the wall again. She flung herself at it once more, and met with the same result as before, only now it was starting to irk her. Much as it had when that stupid “Goblin Arse-face” had taken her brother. Faelala laughed again and landed on her head.

“You’re not very bright are you?” He crowed, before tapping her forehead with his beak.

“Fuck you!” The girl swatted at him.

The bird alighted to the top of the wall and preened, eyeing her indignantly. For good measure, Niphredil launched a sidekick at the wall. The wall made an offended rumble. Faelala fluttered back down, cowering behind one rainbow sock covered leg.

“So what you’re scared of a fuckin’ wall? Psh,” she smirked.

“I don’t think insulting her Ladyship is a good idea.” If it was possible for a talking bird to whimper, he would have done so.

“So this wall is a lady eh?” Niphredil went up to the wall and rapped her knuckles against it. “Oi! Lady you got ten seconds to let me in!”

As she counted down to ten, Faelala hopped back and forth, as if awaiting some impending disaster to burst forth from within. When the countdown ended and nothing had happened, the girl stormed off towards the right. The bird took wing after her, suddenly nervous when another rumble of discontent split the air.

“Wait for me!” He cawed and perched on her shoulder.

“Why? You are a pain in my arse!” She grumbled.

“I know where there’s a door!”

That made Niphredil freeze in her tracks.

“You do?”

“Yeah I do!” Faelala bounced, “see that tree over there, the one that looks like it wants to gobble you up! It’s by there!”

She noticed the large, twisted and snarled tree and set off at a jog towards it. As she approached she noticed an arched gateway along with a gap in the wall. The tree loomed over her as she came to a stop. Niphredil let out a low whistle before she jabbed her fist into the air.

“Score, now into the belly of the beast, time to find that arsehole so I can read him the riot act for putting me through this!”

The tree however decided to make that a more literal statement than she had intended. Two long branches closed around her and lifted the girl into the air. The tree rattled, shaking her to and fro, while Faelala squawked in alarm. She beat her fists bloody against the bark, whole body struggling against the vice grip around her. Despite her effort the tree did not relent.

“Fuck!” She screeched.

“Hang on! Hang on!” He chirped as he fluttered through the branches. “It looks like there’s something stuck in one of the hollows.”

The bird ducked inside and tried to pull at the item. After a few tugs, the item came loose, a large rocky shard of some sort or another, clattered to the dirt near the roots. The tree shuddered with relief and let the girl down. Faelala hopped around to the front of the tree.

“You got a bit of dark shard stuck didn’t you?”

The tree gave a solemn nod.

“Didn’t your mama teach you to never go near those?”

The tree wilted with a meek nod.

“We all make mistakes, it’s okay.” The bird reached out a wing and patted them sympathetically on the root.

The tree straightened and offered a branch out to Niphredil. She crossed her arms and snorted. They wilted once more, branches fidgeted with leaves. Faelala patted the tree again.

“They’re sorry, miss, they really are. They had a splinter, and it made them cranky.”

“Tch, fine, I forgive you, but if you do that again, I will beat your ass.” She grumbled and offered one small, bloodied fist for the tree to tap.

The tree bent, bewildered by the gesture.

“Oh come on, just fist bump me before this gets any fucking weirder.” Niphredil snapped.

One set of branches twisted together to make something that could pass for a fist before they tapped it gently against her outstretched one. She gave a brief smile before setting off towards the gate. Faelala did a double take before he flew after her and settled once more onto her head.

“What are you doing?” She growled up at the bird.

“Coming with you.” He declared proudly.

“Like hell you are, I am gonna be the hero of this story, and no one, not you, not my stupid arsehole brother, or anybody else is stealing my thunder.” The girl snorted. “So I don’t need your help.”

“Oh yes, I saw how you’ve fared thus far, and you are going to need all the help you can get.”

“Tch, you’re as pesky as Asa.” Niphredil rolled her eyes. “Fine you can come, I could use a minion. But no speaking unless spoken to, I don’t got time for this shit.”

“Woo!” He cawed and flapped eagerly.

The girl strode along in silence as the bird fidgeted atop her head while they followed one long stretch of passage. She took a left and then a right at the next two intersections. The walls grew narrower as she did so until they reached what seemed to be a dead end. She kicked the wall, but before she could begin to backtrack, Faelala tapped his beak against her head and gestured to a recess that appeared to their left and she turned down it. The passages widened again before it spat them out into a courtyard with a dozen branches leading from it. Niphredil took a moment to sit down and take her shoes off and tapped the sand and rocks from them.

“Who did you wish away?” The bird asked as he observed her.

“I thought I said no talking.”

“Right, sorry.”

Silence passed as the girl dug a stubborn rock from the toe of her left sneaker.

“My brother,” she mumbled abruptly.

“What?”

“My stupid arseface bull in a fucking china shop brother. Not my cool dorky stupid brother.”

“He sounds mean. What did he do?” Faelala settled on her knee as she finished cleaning out her other shoe.

“He wrecked my movie party, and broke my toys. And he yelled at me and said I had made a mess. I was gonna clean it up eventually, but no he has to have it his way all the time.” She blew a raspberry.

“If he’s so mean, then why are you here Running for him?” The bird sounded sincerely confused.

Niphredil fell silent as she mulled over the question, the dull throb of her bloody knuckles made it a little hard to think. She shook off the pain, she wouldn’t have busted her knuckles if he hadn’t been stupid. This was all Mírdan’s fault. She wouldn’t have been attacked by a tree if he just knew to leave well enough alone. The girl tugged on her sneakers once more before she stood, dusting off her denim skirt, fingers especially diligent with the bloody unicorn on a rainbow patch over her right knee. Her brother had gotten her the patch for her ninth birthday, had drawn it and sent it off to some company that turned sketches into patches. Not that that absolved his sins, nope, no sirree.

“Alright kookaburra, which way?”

“How should I know? I never come into the domain of her Ladyship, I just fly over.”

She snarled.

“Um, this way, or is it this way?” Faelala wiggled in frustration.

“Fly up and see, dumbarse.” Niphredil roared pointing at the sky.

“It doesn’t work like that. If you’re in her Ladyship’s domain, then you can’t leave, you either have to make it to the city, or go back out and over. There’s no in between.” Rather than get mad the bird simply shrugged and began to preen.

“Fuck it.” The girl vaulted to her feet, picked a passage and set off, the bird gave chase a moment later.


	4. Voulez Vous

“Th-thirteen hours seems, uh, kinda short.” Mírdan said, wishing he could get rid of his stammer as he cast a worried look out to the balcony, sharply remembering the depressing, deserted, crumbling city he’d seen, and the gloomy, forbidding labyrinth beyond it.

“If she perseveres, she will make it in time.” The King seemed marvelously unconcerned, and Mírdan wished he could hate the tall, gorgeous fae. “If she gives up, well, then. You’ll be mine,” and he seemed entirely too delighted at the thought, a smirk curling over full, pale lips. Mírdan cast about desperately for a safer subject, one much less sexually charged.

“Uh, so, you said you had brothers!” He said, and Morifinwë blinked, the only outward reaction he seemed to ever have to Mírdan’s rather drastic subject jumps. “I’ve got one myself, uh, younger, and then obviously my sister, she’s younger than both of us. How about your brothers?” Morifinwë chuckled, a rich, low sound that made Mírdan’s innards tie up in knots. This guy was way too handsome, and charming, too! He’d be lucky if he got out of this without accidentally promising himself to be the King’s bedslave of something like that.

“Well, I’ve got six brothers, as I said. Want to guess which brother I am?” His smile was a little on the wry side, as though inviting Mírdan to joke with him. He worried his lip again, before hazarding a guess.

“One of the older ones? Also, your mom must be one awesome lady.” He marveled. Morifinwë laughed again, smile turning much fonder.

“She is, at that.” Morifinwë shook his head. “No, I am the unlucky exact middle. The fourth son.” He sighed, and Mírdan winced sympathetically. That was a pretty rough break.

“So, uh, you said your father’s punishment was taken out on all of you, what’s, um, up with that. If you don’t mind me asking.” He asked, wincing a little at his own lack of articulation. Luckily this just earned him a warm smile that made the tight little knot of heat in his belly spasm in anticipation. Why oh why could he  _ not stop thinking with his dick, augh _ . Sixteen was the  _ worst fucking age _ \- no  _ shit _ poor word choice. Sixteen might be the legal age of consent in Spain, but oh god this was a fae and he was so screwed, and not in the way he’d really like to be right now, dammit. And Morifinwë was talking again and he should really pay attention.

“Well, it was a punishment for my father. He’s a dragon, see, and dragons are greedy, and like to keep both family and hoard close to them. It wasn’t a hardship for us to go out and ply our trades in the world. Her Ladyship was most accommodating when she placed us, though I suppose mother had some influence there. I mean, she is Her Ladyship’s daughter, after all.” This was all said in a very calm and casual manner, though Mírdan’s brain was stalling on the fact that the King was, in fact, the grandson of someone that he wouldn’t even speak the name of. He had a sinking, terrible suspicion that ‘Her Ladyship’ might be someone like the Mórrígan. He cast his brain through the lists of great fae his aitonak had taught him, but before he could make his overworked brain shuffle through any more possibilities, Morifinwë was speaking again.

“So my eldest brother is Her Ladyship’s seneschal, my second eldest brother Her court musician, and my two youngest brothers, the twins, are Her wardrobe masters. My immediate eldest brother went to serve the Lord of the Hunt, and my immediate youngest brother went to serve at the Great Forges.” He explained, and Mírdan nodded thoughtfully.

“And you’re here. Don’t your brothers ever get jealous, considering that you’ve been elevated to the status of a king?” He wondered, and that wry smile made a reappearance.

“If they ever did, it’s been long dispelled since they saw the, well, they would call it tedium of my position. Only my eldest brother has a temperament akin to mine and would be comfortable ruling. He prefers the post as seneschal, though, as it keeps him closer to the majority of our family. I have always needed a bit more space, so this was ideal for me.” Mírdan nodded thoughtfully again, before something occurred to him.

“So, if your father’s a dragon, and your assistant, well, seemed to be a deer, what are you? Is that an impolite question?” He bit his lip, wishing he could recall his words. What if they were horribly offensive? Instead of answering, Morifinwë shrugged his shoulders in a really weird way, before rolling them, and a truly massive set of wings unfurled from his back, until the throne room seemed rather overtaken by a huge set of them, half-feathered, half-leather. Mírdan’s breath caught in his throat, utterly speechless, though a distant part of his brain cataloged the plumage as the coloration of a red-winged blackbird, deep ebony feathers and leather adorned with a bright splash of red and yellow at the shoulders. Another faint, small voice in the back of his head was wolf whistling.  _ ‘Today on kinks I didn’t know I had,’ _ he thought dryly. The biology section of his brain was safer, so he went with that, though now he was traitorously thinking about cloaca, and comparing it to the very nice bulge at the front of tight leather trousers that was pretty obviously a penis.

“Uh, so. Wait. How are your wings anchored? Do you have a second set of pectoral muscles?” He asked curiously.  _ ‘Do you have nipples? If you have nipples, do you have two sets?’ _ He thought, carefully not voicing that portion of his thought process. “Do you have a keel bone? If you do, is it extra-long due to mammalian torso proportion?” Morifinwë smiled in a distinctly predatory fashion. Mírdan’s brain short-circuited again. Could anything he’d said be taken in a sexy manner? He didn’t think he’d said anything incriminating.

“Are you saying you’d like to see me shirtless?” The King purred, and half of Mírdan’s brain crowed ecstatically, while the other half admitted sheepishly that what he’d said could, theoretically, be taken that way. Before he could reconcile himself with that fact long enough to formulate an articulate response, Morifinwë ran a hand along the length of his torso, and with a faint shimmer of glitter that left a slight glimmer on his skin, the shirt and cravat disappeared entirely, leaving his top half completely bare.

‘ _ Well, shit. He’s hot. I’m screwed. I am irrevocably, unapologetically screwed. And no, I am not thinking about his nipples right now, even if he only has two and they are perky. Nope. Not happening. Nope.’ _ He swallowed, the tip of his tongue flicked over the corner of his mouth before he caught himself. From the look of it though the fae did not have an extended keel bone, as his primary alar muscles wrapped under his arms, and under his pectorals for those. His guess was that they came up under to anchor there and layered over the abdominal set for support, judging by the oddly compressed set he saw just above Morifinwë’s navel. His eyes drifted to one side, following the jut of one hip down. He jerked his head back up to observe the stretched skin webbing, trying to tamp down ideas of how to get the Goblin King out of those illegally tight trousers.

Morifinwë drew his wings back in from their full stretch, mantling them against his back in a more manageable fashion. Mírdan’s mouth pouted without his brain’s input, and Morifinwë’s eyebrow quirked up. He scrambled for something relatively benign to say.

“Can I touch them?” Well, that was not benign at all. At all. Thanks brain to mouth filter, you utter  _ traitor _ . Morifinwë looked even more pleased, if that was possible. One wing arched forward around his body in offering. He gulped tightly, and then reached out a shaky hand. The feathers were stiff, not really very soft, like those of a real bird. The skin of the membrane section was leathery and soft, warm and slightly scaly. Half of his brain was wondering about the skeleto-muscular construction of wings like these, while the other half was desperately trying not to picture how it might feel to be wrapped up in those wings whilst completely naked. Luckily for him, a tall, dark fae swept into the room, bowing solicitously to the king.

“Your Majesty, am I interrupting?” His voice was deep and musical, and Morifinwë turned, expression inscrutable once more. Mírdan raised himself to his tiptoes to inspect the newcomer over the king’s shoulder, which was, very suddenly and to his mingled dismay and relief, clothed once more. His wings also vanished, leaving him appearing quite human once more.

“Ah, Ecthelion.” The king walked over to speak with him in low murmurs, leaving Mírdan to observe the newcomer. He was tall, not much taller than the king, and slender, and Mírdan wondered self-deprecatingly, idly pinching the weight he carried around his stomach and hips, if it was a racial characteristic. He wore dark-patina armor, chainmail and plate, and beautifully crafted, and jealousy made him wiggle a little in place, grumbling in his head. He was dark, as Mírdan had observed before; black hair in a long, straight tail down his back, and skin a few shades lighter, a rich dark umber. Mírdan had no idea what kind of spirit the newcomer might be, when light caught against Ecthelion’s cheek just right and a little flash of blue lit up. Then Mírdan could see them – dark blue points against the rich brown of his skin, like sparkling freckles, or maybe – scales?  
  
He glanced out the window, worrying a little. How bad would the run be for his sister? How much of what the king told him could he really trust? He sighed, shoulders slumping. Being a prisoner sure was hard. He could only imagine what his sister was going through.


	5. Risky Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning now for mention of a child getting hit on the knuckles for swearing, not sure if this is an actual trigger, but better safe than sorry.

Niphredil growled and shoved a large tangle of vines out of her way. “Stupid vines. Stupid walls. Stupid labyrinth!”

Faelala flittered behind her anxiously, “you’re insulting the lady. You’re not gonna be popular with the girls if you do that.”

“Don’t like girls, don’t like boys, girls call me names and boys are gross.” She barrelled through another tangle of vines. One snared around her leg and she fell onto her face. Her skirt tore, and she fought back a sniffle. “I liked having a sister, but now he’s another stupid boy. Lúthien’s not too icky but she’s all old.”

“Lúthien?” The bird asked as he perched on a small rock.

She frowned, “my stupid brother’s stupid best friend. She likes to think she’s so cool but all they do is sit around and talk about boys. So dumb. She does braid my hair though… it looks nice when she does it.” The girl added as an afterthought. However her expression soured, “but you put her with my brother and it’s like they get double stupid. Like their stupidness builds on top of each other until they’re at the top of stupid mountain.”

“Here now, child, that’s unkind.” The voice was deep, weathered and worn, like Niph’s grandpa’s voice, but familiar-sounding or not, it still made her startle. Faelala chirped in distress too, wings wide as he practically fell off his rock. They both whipped around, the bird doing his level best to cower behind Niphredil.

“ _Che_ , birdbrained coward,” she muttered, facing the newcomer. There was no one there. Faelala was still cowering. “Hey, show yourself, you creeper!” she called, feeling a weird surge of protectiveness to the large bird hiding behind her. Faelala squawked, sounding incredulous, or scared, or both.

“You just called the Grey Pilgrim a creeper!” The kookaburra chittered slightly hysterically. Niphredil propped her fists on her hips, doing her best impression of Mum when she got really mad, instead her base-level grouchiness. Grandpa always told Niph she was like her mum. Usually sounding somewhat long-suffering if not outright exasperated, but that wasn't the point. Niph was tough, she was badass, and she was gonna rock this thing and get her dumbass brother back. And then maybe he'd fix her skirt for being tough and cool and brave.

Her eyes searched the surrounding dim vegetation, until she saw something moving in a purposeful was her direction. They were old and small and hunched over a staff, but moving with admirable speed despite that. Soon enough, they were standing before her, a wizened, wrinkly old creature with a face like an unfortunate half-rotted turnip, about the same height as Niphredil in all her ten-year-old glory. She eyes the creature, unimpressed.

“Th’fuck you supposed to be?” She asked dubiously. The creature’s staff lashed out ludicrously quickly, leaving the knuckles of one of her hands stinging like she'd scratched them on a nettle-bush. She helped and stumbled back, causing Faelala to take to the air with a squawk of panic. Really, that dumb bird. A quick glance ensured no rash was coming up, so the damned stick wasn't actually made from nettle, but she avoided rubbing the sport anyway, tears gathering in her eyes.

“What the fucking hell was that for?” She spat, and he smacked her again, still weirdly too fast to dodge. He got her other set of knuckles, and maybe the stick stung so much because she'd beat herself bloody on the tree? She wasn't betting on it though. Logic had no place in this horrible maze.

“A young lady shouldn't swear like that,” the old turnip replied, and small, twinkly dark eyes gleamed in the depths of the wrinkles. Niph was livid, and also very slightly ashamed. She was aware that ten was too young to use the kinds of words she heard grandpa using when the tractor broke down again and he didn't realize she was in earshot. That was why she never used them where he could hear her. Mírdan was bad at discipline, not that he should be allowed to discipline her, _ever_ , but she got away with more things when he was, technically, in charge.

“Yeah,” she challenged, drawing herself up. “Well old fogeys like you aren't _allowed_ to hit girls with fu- _stupid_ nettle-sting sticks. I know my rights, that's abuse!” She spat, but was stymied by what threat to use. She couldn't tell grandpa, he wasn't here. She couldn't tell the principal, either, they weren't at school. The turnip-man’s eyes gleamed like he knew exactly what she was thinking. It made Niphredil a bit nervous, but the continued stinging in her hands made it hard to think, and she felt like crying. Grandpa had always been super serious in his instructions on what to do if an adult hurt her, but nothing _applied_ here.

“Little lady, all it takes is an apology for your language, and I'll take the pain away, and wrap up those unsightly cuts.” The turnip said, strangely patient and kind now. “All you need to do is mind your manners, child. The sand is running out as we stand here, and I know the way through the jungle. Take it or leave it, child.” Niphredil bit her lip, tears beading in her eyes. She hated manners, they were so _stupid_. Act pretty and lie a lot so people would like you, in her opinion.

“Fine, just keep your stick to yourself and no funny business, _please_ ,” she spat, but all he did was stand there, and she remembered. Ugh she _hated_ apologizing. “And I'm sorry for swearing,” she added grudgingly. The turnip-face beamed, and he touched her hands with his little, leathery, knobbly fingers and the stinging stopped, leaving almost agonizing relief behind. Faelala fluttered back down to perch on her shoulder peering at the turnip-man almost shyly. “Fat lotta help you were, birdbrain,” she groused, as the old turnip led them to a stream so she could wash her bloody knuckles.

“What's a kookaburra like me supposed to do against the Grey Pilgrim? Huh, thought he'd be taller.” The bird squawked sassily. He received a sharp tap on his beak for his trouble, and Niph grinned a little viciously, kneeling by the stream and quickly washing her sore hands.

“Thought you weren't a kookaburra, but a Faelala?” she asked cheekily, and the bird huffed a bit. Her hands did actually feel a bit better after a thorough scrub in the freezing-cold stream, and then the turnip, well, Grey Pilgrim, went at them with a deft pair of tweezers, removing three splinters she didn't know she had, before wrapping leaves around her hands, followed by bandages. He then picked up a small satchel and slung it around his shoulders before pointing in a random direction with his staff.

“The way out of the jungle is over there,” he proclaimed, and Faelala chirped a cheer. Niphredil wasn't so easily convinced. The old geezer was crafty, and she understood with great clarity that the rules didn't work the same way here.

“The way out of the jungle, sure. I want the way to the castle at the center of the labyrinth, and if you can't get me there, I'll go myself.” She declared imperiously. Faelala squawked, sounding wounded. “With Faelala.” She amended, and he preened her hair, pleased. The Grey Pilgrim turned to her with a sly smile.

“What business does a nice young lady have at that old place?” He _tsk’d_ , shaking his head in mock-solemnity. “Ah, youth these days,”

“Leave it. Do you know the way I want to go or not?” She asked impatiently. He nodded, but made no other movements. “Then show me!” She cried, exasperated. A thought occurred to her. “Please. Please show me- _us_ the way to the castle at the center of the labyrinth.” She amended hastily, and a slow smile broke out on the wizened turnip face of her maybe-guide.

“This way, my young friends. Step lively, now!” He turned the opposite way from where he had pointed at first, and moved really fast, for an old geezer, jeez. She jogged to catch up, Faelala cuddling closer to her neck. She reached up an absent hand to steady him, grinning brightly. She was finally _getting_ somewhere in this stupid maze!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the sort chapter, this one was kinda hard to write. :)


	6. Your Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT WARNING!!!! This chapter contains very frank discussion of past child abuse, up to and including a murder attempt. There is also implied murder mixed up with fae questionable morality.

“Ecthelion, tell me the goblins haven't exceeded the weekly explosion quota, the budget for repairs is strained as it stands, and we have a Runner, and I doubt this one's going to be terribly concerned about budgets if or when she breaches the city. The Labyrinth is largely self-sustaining, but the City…” Carnistir let himself trail off, aware that his Captain knew that the city itself had to be repaired through normal toil. He minded his volume, keeping it to a murmur. To Mírdan, he was supposed to be sinister and seductive, not worried about budgets and the cost of repairs. Ecthelion winced, slightly.

“There's always the emergency fund, Majesty,” he reminded Carnistir. He looked over at Mírdan, interested, and Carnistir fought down his possessive instincts. 

“I don't wish to dip into those.” Carnistir was well aware of the occasional traits he had inherited from his father, and possessive greed was a large one. He knew, faintly, that he was pouting slightly, and ensured that his back was to his guest. Ecthelion smiled absently at him.

“I know, Majesty. My guardsmen and I shall be on the fringes of the Run to mitigate damages, should the Runner reach the City.” Ecthelion reassured, before finally frowning slightly at Mírdan. Carnistir glanced over his shoulder and found the small human staring out the window, looking worried. “Majesty, I know humans all look alike, but this is too much of a resemblance to ignore. He could be my bondmate’s brother.” Ecthelion murmured, looking mildly troubled. Carnistir turned, looking at Mírdan with fresh eyes. Now that he was looking for it, the boy was a dead ringer. Smaller and slighter, to be sure, but definitely related. 

Carnistir tapped his lips, looking sultry for the human, while his mind raced with the possibilities. It was incredibly unlikely for any humans related closer than four generations to be wished away in this day and age, where belief in magic and the old ways were being subsumed by technology. Not that Carnistir was opposed to technology, not like every single other fae realm. Carnistir found technology quite delightful and innovative, those clever little humans, discovering ways to make their own magic. He was even, at present, trying to develop a method to power the internet in his realm, having found it incredibly intriguing. He was still discussing with his advisors and the Labyrinth whether or not they should put a magical copy if the Book into the internet.

But he was distracting himself. Carnistir narrowed his eyes. The man in question had wished himself away, an action that usually never worked. The Labyrinth had sent him to collect anyway, and he’d found the young man, not more than twenty years old, half-drowned in an overflowing bathtub, blood swirling through the water in rivulets from a nasty head wound, bound hand and foot. His own mother had tried to kill him in what he’d termed a ‘psychotic break’. It hadn’t been the first time.

The man had been healed by Carnistir and the Labyrinth’s power, and eaten the bread and drunk the wine of Carnistir’s realm with the full knowledge of what would happen if he did. He had, actually, thought he would turn into a goblin should he do so, and Carnistir had put that misunderstanding up to the vaguely archaic writing style if the Book. Instead, he became a transformed fae, a changeling. Carnistir had never checked back with the human family, having cut the man’s bonds and left his small silver skinning knife and the cut ropes on the floor as a warning. Perhaps it had been an oversight, on his part. 

“You’re right, Captain. Perhaps we should… reunite them? Check with your bondmate, though. No need to unnecessarily distress him.” Ecthelion quirked a small, appreciative smile at him before performing a quick bow and moving slightly to send a speaking-spell. The motion caught the young man’s attention, and he smiled curiously, cocking his head to the side. Carnistir favored Mírdan with a seductive smile. The human, predictably now, blushed and looked away, towards the royal-blue glimmer in the air that was Ecthelion’s speaking-spell. It ended soon enough, and Ecthelion turned to him with a slight smile and a sharp nod. His bondmate was amenable, then. Time to prepare Mírdan then. Though- he turned to Ecthelion with a faint expression of distaste. 

“Do remind him that I have a reputation to uphold, and compassion is so very… distasteful.” The statement was true in more ways than one. His level of compassion for all the high fae deemed ‘unworthy’; changelings, social pariahs, those who had somehow disgraced themselves, and even, in truth, the lesser fae themselves was utterly unthinkable. He only got away with it by virtue of being somewhat of a social pariah himself, as well as his position and birthright. Ecthelion murmured assent, and he floated, unconcerned, to Mírdan’s side as his guard-captain positioned himself by the door. Mírdan watched him approach with delicious apprehension, and a thought occurred to Carnistir, one he hadn’t considered in quite a while. He tucked it away for later perusal. 

“What has so caught your interest outside of these walls?” He inquired, gesturing grandly at the window he’d stared at for so long. He looked vaguely uncomfortable.

“I was just wondering if my sister was okay,” he mumbled, and Carnistir briefly cast his thoughts abroad, searching out the biggest, most annoying disruption in his realm. 

“She is well enough, though you must tell her that provoking dangerous things is going to get her burned someday,” he advised, but that just made him look more worried. “Come now, Mírdan. I’ve arranged for a visitor!” He said smugly, just to watch the young human’s eye twitch slightly. “My Captain, Ecthelion,” here Ecthelion sketched a respectful nod, “is mated to someone who just bears the most striking resemblance to you, I just couldn’t resist seeing exactly how alike you look.” He said brightly, with a hint of a smirk. Mírdan looked appropriately wary and curious. 

“Um. Okay? You said mated- is that like married?” He asked tentatively. Carnistir considered for a moment before replying. 

“Marriage is a contract. Love is usually not involved, and there are usually clauses in a marriage contract that allows it to be broken off if love is found. A mating occurs with two who are in love, binding their magics to each other.” He explained briefly. Love was so rare among high fae it was intensely sought after and guarded jealously, whilst simultaneously being seen as for the weak and needy. A strange conundrum. Mírdan was nodding with an intrigued expression, mouth opening for doubtless yet another curious question, when the doors opened and Carnistir’s technological advisor and occasional blacksmith strode in, bowing in an almost perfunctory manner to Carnistir before kissing Ecthelion and listening to the Captain’s quiet words. A strangled squeaking noise issued from Mírdan and Carnistir glanced to his side to note that the young man had gone alarmingly pale under those lovely freckles, mouth hanging open unattractively. He put an arm around Mírdan’s waist in case he fainted, before leaning down to purr in his ear. 

“If you don’t close that pretty mouth, something or some _ one _ might take it as an invitation to explore.” He licked the corner of the boy’s mouth to demonstrate, before straightening up. Mírdan’s jaw clicked shut with almost alarming speed. “Rog, come meet our guest,” he declared more than asked. Rog turned with a faint smile that faded slightly when he laid eyes on Mírdan. 

“Hullo, then. I'm Rog Otxoa.” He said softly, and Mírdan stiffened even more.

“I-I'm Mírdan Otxoa.” He murmured faintly, looking up at the older man. Rog smiled slightly wistfully.

“That makes you my older sister’s kid, I think.” Rog said softly, before reaching out to touch the pink scarring that formed an odd cross on the right side of Mírdan’s face. Mírdan flinched subtly, and Rog snatched his hand back like he'd been burned. Rog touched his own forehead, where a scar like a sunburst rested. “Looks familiar,” he muttered, gesturing between their two facial scars. Mírdan fingered his, looking very nervous. “Mine’s from my mother,” he said softly. Carnistir felt his eyes narrow involuntarily. He didn't like what Rog was implying. Mírdan coughed nervously.

“Uh. Same. Your mother, Grandmother, I mean, not my mum.” He mumbled, barely audible. Carnistir felt his infamous temper rear its nasty head, and removed his arm from around Mírdan’s back, gently pushing him into Rog’s arms. Rog wrapped a protective arm around Mírdan’s thin shoulders, tucking the boy securely against his side, recognizing Carnistir’s temper for what it was. Carnistir felt an unearthly calm settle over him, color rising in spots high in his cheeks. 

“Am I to understand that  _ she _ has ignored my warning?” He said in a soft, dangerous tone. In his peripheral vision he saw Mírdan flinching into Rog’s side, eyes wide and expression panicky, but he didn't have the capacity to care at that moment. He stretched out his hand, summoning the same silver skinning knife he had used to cut Rog’s bonds thirteen years ago, noting the film of dust disturbed only by small fingerprints that had a different, thinner layer of grime. “Forget me, woman? Forget your son, forget your  _ warning _ ?” Carnistir snarled, banishing the dust to leave the blade gleaming wickedly and razor-sharp. He imperiously gestured for his Captain to attend him, and Ecthelion hurried forth, kneeling before his king with a eager, hopeful, bloodthirsty expression. “As I cannot leave the Labyrinth unattended whilst a Run is underway, I give you this chance, Captain Ecthelion, to exact my vengeance for me, and for your bondmate.” He said, offering the hilt to the other fae. Ecthelion accepted greedily, rising to leave. 

“Ecthelion,” Rog’s voice was very, very soft, wounded-sounding. Ecthelion hurried over, catching up Rog’s free hand, kissing his knuckles. “Ecthelion, that’s my mother,” he muttered, and Carnistir saw Mírdan wrap his arms around the other man’s waist, burying his face into Rog’s chest. Ecthelion released Rog’s hand, moving to stroke Rog’s cheek gently.

“She hurt you. She hurt your nephew. She deserves this,” he murmured to Rog, sweet and low and gentle. Rog closed his eyes, a small, hurt noise issuing from his throat even as he raised his free hand to hold Ecthelion’s against his cheek.

“I know but she’s not- it’s not-” he made a frustrated murble in the back of his throat. “She’s still my mother,” he settled on, voice thick with emotion, a tear escaping his closed eyes.

“And she’ll never hurt anyone ever again,” Ecthelion promised, and Rog reluctantly released him, a self-soothing purr beginning to rumble through his chest. Ecthelion left after pressing a sweet kiss to Rog’s mouth, the light of bloodlust dancing in his eyes, and Carnistir smiled fondly after his captain before turning to the two redheads.

“I’ll be in my study, Rog. I’ll let you two catch up. Just let me know when you need to return to your duties.” He said, before departing in a swirl of glitter and shadowy feathers.


	7. Alone Together

Niphredil kicked another half crumbled wall over, the city looming ever closer in the distance. “Not bad, I can totally do this.” She huffed as they clambered over the rubble. “Feel a little like Luke,” she muttered. Given his stature and the massive crumbling rubble piles, the Grey Pilgrim had decided to cling to her back. “This rate not sure if I’m gonna be a Jedi or a Saint.”

“What are those?” Faelala asked as he perched on a bit of rubble while they took a rest.

“What are what?” Her head snapped up. “Someone coming for a fight?”

“Jedi and Saint. What are Jedi and Saint?”

The Grey Pilgrim rolled his eyes and lifted a hand, pointing them in the direction they needed to head next. Niphredil clambered on until they reached what could be called a climbing wall. Only unlike the one at the rock climbing gym in town, there were no nets or ropes or harnesses. “Up there.”

“Well see in Star Wars the Jedi are supposed to be these masters of this thing called the Force and they’re supposed to protect the galaxy. Only they suck at it cause they have this whole thing about not forming emotional attachments. It’s dumb. Asa likes it a lot for some reason.” She blew a raspberry before she put a hand to the wall. The outcrop of brick held firm as she tugged. Assured she wouldn’t fall right away, she started up.

“Anyway, I wanna be a Saint, they are an order of warriors of hope and love and justice who serve Athena and are protected by one of the eighty-eight constellations in the night sky.” Niphredil continued, each step careful and nerve-wracking, “they can break mountains with a punch. I’d be a Gold Saint, one of the twelve strongest, since I’m a Leo, I’d be the Leo Saint, like Aiolia!” She declared triumphantly.

“Young lady, I will ask you to focus,” the Grey Pilgrim cautioned as her foot slipped. They dangled for a moment before she regained her footing and carried on climbing.

Halfway up, and footsteps on the wall caught their attention. The group glanced over to see Morifinwë strolling up the side of the wall, the heels of his boots clicked against the bricks. “Really, must you do things the hard way?”

“I don’t have magic wall sticking shoes.” She grumbled, forging on.

“I just thought you’d like an update on your brother’s progress,” Morifinwë smirked as he strolled along side her. “He’s incredibly curious about my realm and dealings. He’s incredibly astute, I think given enough time I could convince him to stay. I could use another subject, what do you think?”

“I think I’m gonna storm your keep and save his ass before he can be any stupider!” Niphredil roared, and with a fresh burst of rage and a thick knot of fear in her stomach, she launched herself up the wall. The Grey Pilgrim clung on as Faelala fluttered after them, desperate to keep up. 

All of them missed the perplexed frown on Morifinwë’s face before he disappeared, raining glitter to the foggy depths below. 

Up at the top, Niphredil flopped over, panting and sweaty. “I- really- really-  _ really-  _ hate that guy.” She coughed, and shook the dust out of her face.

“The Goblin King is scary.” Faelala hovered over the edge, scanning for him.

The Grey Pilgrim dusted himself off, propped on his staff once more. “The Goblin King has his reasons for what he does. Though only he knows his own council. Now, let’s take another minute’s rest and press on. We’re growing close now, just through the Lair of the Nightmare, and then we’ll be at the last part of the Labyrinth.”

“Lair of the Nightmare?” Niphredil sat up, dusting herself off, “what’s that then?”

“A dreadful, flesh eating beast no one has ever looked upon and lived to tell the tale.” He shook his head, stroking his beard. “Bad business indeed, but to go around would take thrice as long. If we are quick and quiet though, our presence may go unnoticed.”

Faelala fretted, “and if it doesn’t?”

“Then that Nightmare will never even see my light speed fangs.” The girl stood and punched her other hand. “I ain’t scared, anything that tries to stop me is gonna get wrecked!” It was as much a reassurance for the others as it was to herself. “C’mon nerds, let’s go for it.”

Niphredil led the way into the cavern, Faelala perched on her head and the Grey Pilgrim leading the way. The cavern smelled awful, worse than the compost heap awful. She pulled the collar of her shirt over her nose and trudged on, eyes watering.

“Hey, um, anyone got a flashlight?” She asked, as the only light now came from her sneakers, which cast eerie red flickers into the darkness.

No answer came.

“Mr. Pilgrim? Faelala?” She stumbled on, groping in the darkness until she found something smooth and metallic. It felt like a doorknob. Worried but hopeful, she twisted it open onto a grand ballroom. Party-goers lined the edges of it, all in masks and all staring down at the dancefloor. In the middle she could see her brother dancing with the Goblin King.

“Oi! Tano!” She shouted, relieved before charging down the stairs and tackling him into a hug.

“Why are  _ you  _ here?” The teen accused.

“I’m here to take you home, dumbarse,” she snuggled into his side.

“Why? Why bring me back? You didn’t want me around!” Mírdan accused as he shoved his sister off of him. “You were the one who wished me away.”

“I know, and I’m sorry, but I’m here now!” Niphredil stood up, tears welling in her eyes. “So let’s just forget this happened and go home.”

“I am home. The people here really appreciate me, a lot more than you do.” He snapped as Morifinwë helped Mírdan to his feet. “You just wanted me gone, so away I went. I don’t even know why you bothered Running after me. I don’t like you and you don’t like me, as far as I’m concerned you’re not my sister and you never were!”

Niphredil balked before she bolted back up the stairs and through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

* * *

Carnistir glanced up from his paperwork, a surge of fear and hurt had entered the Labyrinth. The Lair of the Nightmare normally only appeared for older Runners or Runners who had some sort of magical potential. For the Labyrinth to conjure it now in a Run with the age dynamics reversed made him curious. He hadn’t sensed any potential within either sibling when they had arrived. Then again Rog had also adjusted to becoming a changeling quicker than expected.

The way Niphredil had charged up the wall as though channeling a sticking spell through her body earlier still bothered him. On the flip side, Mírdan’s seeming insatiable curiosity set him apart from most of the others, even if he seemed thoroughly resistant to Carnistir’s seductive charms.  It was on the one hand a welcome reprieve from the crying and complaining, but then everything about this run had been unusual. He sighed, he had to finish his paperwork, preferably before something else exploded before the Runner potentially reached the city.


	8. I've Got Troubled Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS HEAVY. Once again discussing past child abuse and related themes. Be prepared!
> 
> That said, this chapter gave me so much trouble ugh. There were just too many things to possibly talk about, it was super hard to decide. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

“Sorry about that,” Mírdan’s brand new freakin’ _uncle_ said, soft and apologetic in the ringing, awkward silence. Mírdan was trying to wrap his brain around the implied possibility of his grandmother being murdered by fae. Fae he’d, probably mistakenly, begun to think were pretty benevolent, if super-seductive.

“Uh, um, i-it’s not your fault,” he muttered, turning his face away from where it was buried in the taller man’s chest. Looking up at the taller man, he noticed, slightly belatedly, that even if his uncle had once been human, he wasn't anymore. Faint striping that could be taken for weird makeup led from the corners of his eyes down his nose, and again from the opposite corners into his hairline. His hair was the same length and shade of red as Mírdan’s, practically obscuring the round pair of what looked like tiger’s ears nestled in the wild mass of curls. Rog’s eyes were the same shade of storm-cloud grey as his, and Mírdan could see some disturbing similarities in their facial structures, and wait, wait _wait_ . The man couldn't be a day beyond nineteen or twenty, peach fuzz just barely darkening his jawline. “How _old_ are you?” He yelped, leaning backwards in Rog’s hold. Rog blinked down at him, and oh, well, there was the mystery of where he got his camel-lashes solved. Stupid long eyelashes.

“Thirty-ish?” He asked, sounding vaguely confused. “Mizde is six years older than me.” He said, much more definitively. Mírdan gawked up at the older man.

“You can't be thirty-four, you barely look twenty!” He cried, eyes wide. Rog released Mírdan, looking vaguely uncomfortable. He rubbed idly at his peach fuzz, and a small part of Mírdan’s brain was pouting about the peach fuzz. He wanted peach fuzz too, dammit.

“I was twenty when I ate at His Majesty Morifinwë’s table,” he said, a little awkwardly.

“I- I see. Um.” Mírdan paused, thinking. “I think I sort of remember something. I was little, and Mama took me to see Aitonak. They were both really sad about something.” Rog shrugged awkwardly. “She'd gone away to do something before that. I think, um, visiting Grandmother?” He offered awkwardly, immediately regretting having said anything when Rog’s face gained a familiar dark look. “...yeah, let's talk about something else,” he said hastily. Rog nodded agreeably.

“How's Aita?” He asked, tugging Mírdan over to sit on the broad window ledge.

“Aitona? He works too hard, but I think he always has. Me and my siblings live with him out on the ranch, which means we can help out when we're not at school.” Mírdan shrugged helplessly. “I try.” Rog smiled, and that was all Gaurandir, minus a few laugh lines and crow's feet. “He's, yeah, really good with Asa and Niph. Better than me, definitely. He wouldn't have gotten himself stuck in this crazy situation,” he rolled his eyes self-deprecatingly. Rog reached over and ruffled his hair.

“Give yourself some credit, kiddo, you're doing good. Besides, you're what, fifteen, sixteen? You're their brother, not their father.” He said reassuringly. Mírdan frowned a little.

“I guess,” he mumbled, troubled. “Um, let’s see…” he tapped his finger on his lips, trying to think. Rog grinned suddenly.

“Does he still brew his own cider under the kitchen sink? I swear, I never saw a cleaner cupboard as when he did.” Rog asked, and Mírdan grinned back, relieved that the pressure of the conversation was mostly off of him again.

“The kitchen sink, really? He's in the shed now, every autumn. Makes us do the juicing after he comes home from the neighbor’s orchard, the truck bed packed full of boxes of apples. It takes _days_ to get through them all, good grief.” Rog laughed at that, bright and happy, and Mírdan smiled up at him, strangely proud of himself. He was always so proud when he could make Gaurandir laugh, and Rog’s resemblance was making that pride echo.

“I bet it does, checking for worms, doing a wash, putting them through the juicer. Does he have a better juicer now?” Rog asked, interested.

“Yeah, he has an electric juicer, almost commercial grade. The neighbors come over to help, we pay them in cider after it's done fermenting.” Rog nodded, grin still not quite faded.

“I'm glad he's in good with the neighbors now. He used to hermit a lot when we all lived there together… he'd be out doing everything from sunup to sundown. Did he ever hire any farm hands?” Rog’s smile faded slightly. Mírdan shrugged a little.

“He gets a couple lads in from town to help come shearing season, but that's about it.” Rog shot Mírdan a knowing little smile.

“Lads? I'd bet good money they're older than you, boyo.” He said with a chuckle. Mírdan flushed brightly.

“Ah. Uh, it's what Aitona calls them,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. Rog laughed brightly, wrapping his arm around Mírdan’s shoulders and pulling him close, before drawing him over to sit on the wide window ledge.

“I figured. So, hm, how's Mizde?” He asked once they were more comfortably situated. Mírdan rolled his eyes and sighed huffily.

“Never home,” he grumbled, and Rog’s face crumpled into worry.

“What do you mean?” He asked, drawing Mírdan a little closer into his side. Mírdan felt something tickle his opposite wrist and glanced down to see a heavy, striped tail curled around him.

“You didn't have that earlier.” He said curiously, distracted. Rog glanced over and huffed a soft, feline noise.

“I dropped my glamour.” He explained impatiently.

“But you had the ears earlier,” Mírdan objected. Rog swore softly, tail tip twitching in annoyance.

“I'm still learning to hold my glamours for long periods,” he said, a bit grouchy and a little embarrassed. “But you're avoiding the question.” Mírdan looked sheepish.

“Not purposefully,” he protested. “Mum just isn't home a lot, she's a high-profile corporate lawyer for my friend Lúthien’s dad’s company, working in the international division. She's only ever home for a couple weeks at the longest.” He shrugged in faux nonchalance. “She always brings us cool shit from around the world, though.” Rog sighed, setting his chin atop Mírdan’s head, a soft rumbling burring through his chest. “Are you purring? How is that biologically possible?” Mírdan asked, fascinated.

“I've never personally questioned it,” Rog said dryly. “Biology has never held a particular interest for me. I prefer engineering, blacksmithing, that sort of thing. And it's not okay that my sister isn't being your mother, and it's all right to be upset about it,” he said softly, and hot tears pricked at Mírdan’s eyes.

“I'm supposed to be okay with it, though. If I'm not, what happens to Asa and Niph? I'm supposed to be strong for them.” He asked, voice thick, cracking embarrassingly at the end. Rog’s arms tightened comfortingly around him.

“You're their brother, not their father. Let him take that burden, it's his job. Or Aita, he's your grandfather.” Mírdan froze, a high, awkward laugh forcing its way through his lips, panic flooding through him.

“I wouldn't trust our sperm donor with a pet rock, let alone Asa and Niph.” There was venom in the statement, but it was drowned beneath the trembling fear now rushing in his veins. Mírdan bit his lip and clung to Rog, trying to hide in his chest. His fists clenched, breath catching in ragged, hiccupping gasps.

“Lad?” The changeling prompted, as he resumed purring, “What did he do?”

“I-I was fourteen, it was the first summer after the divorce. I’d just come out as a boy. I thought he would be safe. But I was naïve, in hindsight he always pushed for us to see that woman. Grandmother, I mean. We were in Wales, and he took out his gun while Asa and Niph were out with his parents. I tried to talk to him and he snapped… I spent the night in an IKEA. Took a train to London and stayed with Lúthien until Asa and Niph caught up. Mum filed for custody after that…” he shuddered. His shoulders slumped and the faint smile returned, colored with something like relief. “Huh… That’s the first time I've told that to someone who wasn't Aitona or my therapist.” Rog stamped down on the protective growl that wanted to break free of his throat, hauling Mírdan into his lap and holding him close, helplessly frustrated tears escaping his eyes to drip onto Mírdan’s head.

“Thank you for telling me, sweet lad. That took courage, you did so well.” He praised softly. Mírdan burrowed his face into Rog’s broad, muscular chest, breathing in the musk of fur, the tang of metal and oil. Rog’s hands were big and callused and rough, and the man was just so big, it was nice. Comfortable, like being a child on his aitona’s lap. He missed being able to do that, too big and heavy now for the fifty-six-year-old.

“Can I grow up to be you?” He asked, hating how high and vulnerable his voice sounded. Rog laughed, soft and rumbly.

“How about you grow up to be yourself?” He encouraged gently. Mírdan huffed out a watery laugh.

“But I don't even like myself most of the time,” he complained. Rog smiled softly, resting his cheek against the curly puff of Mírdan’s mohawk.

“That's one of the big secrets of adulthood, lad. I've struggled with that all my life. It's always there, but you learn how to deal with it better, how to accept the support you need while not overburdening the ones who support you. It's a delicate balancing act, and sometimes you tip over one way or the other, but as long as you get yourself back up again after, it'll all end up working out.” Rog chuckled lightly. “I'm not even sure if that made sense, I'm so shit at this. They hurt you, and you'll be living with that your whole life. But in time you can start letting it go. Healing. It's long and hard and awful, but it's possible.” He sighed gustily, and Mírdan’s tears were flowing freely at that point. They breathed for a long moment, hanging on to each other and crying long-needed tears. Eventually Rog pulled out a handkerchief and they both got cleaned up. They leaned against each other in comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, I just realized I think we've never clarified this: Aitona is grandpa in the Basque language, and Aita is dad, according to Google translate. Gaurandir, Rog, Mizde, Mírdan, Tintastel, and Niphredil are all Basque, living in Spain near Bilbao. Well, okay, Rog is living in Fairy, and Mizde lives on airplanes, but you get my gist.


End file.
